


Fight // Flight // Fuck

by SaintClaire



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Sex, Claquesous is a feral bastard man and Montparnasse is into it, Gay Sex, M/M, Montparnasse makes interesting life choices, Outdoor Sex, PWP, everyone else is gone in ten seconds, hand guns, on the run from police, the title gives an accurate summary of the key plot points, yep technically just the two of them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-08
Updated: 2020-06-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:00:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24608101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaintClaire/pseuds/SaintClaire
Summary: Adrenaline has to work its way out of the system somehow.-Montparnasse skitters backwards out of pure reflex, but it’s muscle movement only.  Claquesous’ hands are finally, finally on him properly, no longer just pulling him along beside him, yanking at his clothes and shoving him backwards until he hits a shopfront ass-first.  He laughs, giddy and breathless in delight as Claquesous pushes him further into the window with his hips.  He moans at getting the first touch of friction he’s had all night, not bothering to keep his voice down.
Relationships: Claquesous/Montparnasse (Les Misérables)
Kudos: 14





	Fight // Flight // Fuck

**Author's Note:**

> Cleaning out the WIP folder! This one was mostly done a couple of months ago. It is literally pwp, please do not go into this expecting a lavish plot, because I promise there is not one.

Sirens scream from behind him, and Claquesous matches him step for step. His breathing is harsh, but their boots break on the ground together in perfect time.

Fauntleroy takes flight, leaping with ease onto the railing of the fire escape and pulling themselves up hand over hand, their body dangling gracefully as they shimmy up faster than should be possible.

Brujon kicks his way through an office door, not pausing to hear the glass tinkle to the ground as he darts into a shadowy maze, disappearing almost instantly from sight. 

Montparnasse grits his teeth and swears as he forces his body to move faster, feeling Claquesous do the same alongside him. He doesn’t need to turn around to know that Gueulemer has peeled off. Where Fauntleroy takes flight to go high, Gueulemer will drop away to go low. There’s a metro station close by, if he can get there.

The police sirens are close enough that Montparnasse can see red and blue lights flickering over the smooth surface of Claquesous’ mask, the moulded curves of the plastic forcing the colours to distort. 

A furious voice barks demands through a loudspeaker, crackling with static. There’s fear in the voice of the cop who is still yelling at them even from the safety of his car, and Montparnasse laughs internally, derisive. Coward. Don’t come to the playground if you’re afraid of what you’ll find. They take the corner in perfect synchrony, and he swears as Claquesous yanks hard on his wrist, the incoming dumpster he’s about to run into scraping at his side as his legs falter beneath him. 

Claquesous snarls viciously into his ear, his own steps breaking rhythm as he seizes Montparnasse’s upper arm, hauling him painfully along until his legs remember how to push against the ground. He’s corrected his stumble in less than a moment’s work, but Claquesous keeps his grip on his arm. 

The chorus of sirens are burning his ears, discordant and out of sync with each other, and he bares his teeth as another wail joins the din. They could out run any cop car in the short term, but out-manoeuvring six at once from different angles was a little different. He knew Claquesous was packing, and he was about to dig in his heels and call strike, when he caught sight of the neon lights ahead, a drunk couple stumbling up the dimly lit stairs. 

Thursday night. The clubs are open. 

The hurl themselves down the stairs without bothering to talk about, automatically reaching for the safety that drunken crowds provide. It’s a shit club with shit booze, but the sanctuary it offers is more potent than a church and he can afford a single moment to relax.

Claquesous sheds his dark coat immediately, and saliva inadvertently floods Montparnasse’s mouth. The button up he is wearing is white, too small for him, and the buttons are straining across his chest. 

His hand moves before he can stop it, tracing the line of Claquesous’ sternum, and when he looks sideways at Montparnasse in amusement, he stiffens his hand instantly. He flicks him cruelly where he knows Claquesous’ nipple lies, sneering at his sudden scowl.

“Buy a bigger shirt next time,” he bitches, smirking as Claquesous looks at him darkly. “Anyone would think you didn’t know how to buy clothes that fit.”

“At least I’m not a fucking peacock,” Claquesous retorts as he turns away. However, he catches Claquesous glancing at his own shirt warily as he ditches the coat and spares a vague thought to wish he’d worn a few more layers. Not that he was _expecting_ the meeting to turn into a shitshow, but the bright red stands out in the unfashionable crowds more than Claquesous’ white one, and he is more easily identifiable as a result.

They know the drill. The speakers are cheap, but the music is loud, the bass whining high enough to cover the sirens. Claquesous pulls him by the hand toward the exit at the rear, casually knocking people out of the way.

Sure enough, the police burst in, yelling and flashing multiple badges. There are more than a few people in the mob who have been trying to buy whatever passes for drugs from these dealers, and while the product is so impure Montparnasse doubts it would hold up under testing, this lot don’t know that. It’s a mob prohibition-style, and he laughs as they run with the rest of the stampede, his wrist bruising in Claquesous’ grip. There are people fleeing in every direction out multiple exits. The music is still painfully loud, but someone must manage to hit the lights because the whole basement plunges into darkness as Claquesous darts out the door. The screams increase tenfold as the light vanishes, and he can feel the hair on his arms raising as he grins wildly, adrenaline racing through every inch of his body. 

It’s fight or flight, but it seems fighting isn’t on the card tonight, so he races behind Claquesous blindly, trusting that his freakishly accurate night vision can put them back on the streets. They no longer look odd anymore, running through the night at a full sprint. People are moving in every direction, splitting off from their groups and running across roads and down alleys, and while he’s hardly giving the situation his focused attention, there isn’t a cop any way he looks.

They run until the crowd thins out, losing more and more people as they get further away from the club. Finally, it’s just the two of them, Montparnasse racing just ahead of Claquesous before he ducks into an alley on the right, changing again immediately as the alley opens into a myriad of laneways. He lets his laughter ring out Claquesous changes track to follow him, cursing him from behind, and finally slows to a walk.

It’s used as a market lane in the daylight, but it’s lower than the general ground level of the streets. There might have been cameras, years ago, but time and vandals have taken care of that. He feels manic, feral with energy. The run didn’t bleed it off so much as amped it up further, and he turns so he’s walking backwards as Claquesous stalks up out of the darkness. 

Claquesous moves as though he’s hunting.

His boots, normally soundless on the ground unless he chooses otherwise, thump deliberately against the stone of the ground. His eyes are locked on his own, and while he can’t see his mouth, he’s willing to bet his teeth are bared behind the mask.

Montparnasse reaches out to him, letting him get close but slipping backwards at the last second, continuing to walk backwards. Claquesous’ eyes flash, and he can feel a further thrill race up his spine.

“Had enough?” he crooned, still walking slowly backwards. He balances lightly on his toes as though he’s about to run away any second, is rewarded for it as Claquesous visibly tenses. “The cops are gone,” he lilts in a sing-song tone. “There’s no-one around.”

He’s baiting, teasing, only willing to play along with the charade instead of falling to his knees because he knows that Claquesous will eventually get tired of him batting his eyelashes and reach out and _take_. 

He likes biting and snarling and being such a brat that Claquesous ends up putting him down hard just to shut him up, but he likes it even better when Claquesous drops his fucking inhibitions and just takes him because he feels like it. It doesn’t happen very often, since Claquesous’ self-control is beyond human capacity, but sometimes -.

Sometimes.

Claquesous has stopped advancing, and Montparnasse stops as well. He pouts dramatically, watching Claquesous zero in on his bottom lip. “If you’re not interested” he whispers, “I can go find somebody else to play with…” Something feral grows in Claquesous eyes, and it’s a crying shame that he can only see a part of his face. Montparnasse likes pushing boundaries. “How much do you think,” he continues, “someone else would be willing to give me what I want? If I were to go back to that club and find someone else to f- “

Claquesous lunges at him. 

Montparnasse skitters backwards out of pure reflex, but it’s muscle movement only. Claquesous’ hands are finally, finally on him properly, no longer just pulling him along beside him, yanking at his clothes and shoving him backwards until he hits a shopfront ass-first. He laughs, giddy and breathless in delight as Claquesous pushes him further into the window with his hips. He moans at getting the first touch of friction he’s had all night, not bothering to keep his voice down.

He tears the mask off his face, throwing it to the ground and catching his lips in a messy kiss before Claquesous has time to say anything about it. He certainly tries, and Montparnasse can feel him swearing against his lips as he kisses him feverishly, biting at his lips until Claquesous gives in with a snarl and kisses him properly. 

His heartbeat is still pulsing blood loudly enough he can hear it in his ears, and Claquesous’ hands wind their way into his hair, yanking his head to the side so he can force Montparnasse into exactly the position he wants. His mouth is hot against his, and he doesn’t care about anything, can’t feel anything to care about between the brick wall at his back and Claquesous against his front. 

He’s high on adrenaline, the sirens still wailing faintly somewhere in the background, and he fights back like a brat, shoving at Claquesous’ chest in a move that doesn’t get him anywhere; but Claquesous throws him back into the wall and jams his thigh between Montparnasse’s legs. His mouth drops open with a frankly embarrassing noise and Claquesous chuckles against him, leisurely grinding his thigh against him as he bites at Montparnasse’s bottom lip. 

His hands are ripping their way between the buttons of Montparnasse’s shirt, and he would usually bitch about the lack of care Claquesous is treating his clothes with, but the words aren’t coming anywhere near his lips. The metal of Claquesous’ rings are freezing against his ribs, and he lets out a high-pitched whine as the rings scrape harshly over his nipples, cutting the noise off in the back of his throat.

Claquesous has him pinned to the wall between his thigh and his hands, one of which slips out of his shirt and strokes the way up his throat. He feels Claquesous’ fingers tighten briefly around his neck, while at the same time, he grinds his thigh hard into Montparnasse’s groin, and Montparnasse can no longer cut back the sounds he is making.

Claquesous’ hands are everywhere, his throat, his nipples, the waistband of his pants; and he pleads shamelessly as Claquesous presses bites into his neck where his fingers trail upwards, before kissing him open-mouthed, Montparnasse’s wordless pleas falling between the both of them.

He hasn’t managed to undo a single button of Claquesous’ shirt, and his partner is completely dressed, except for the absence of his mask, thrown to the ground of the alley. He manages to get a hand up, loosely cupping Claquesous’ clean-shaven jaw, the bare skin erotic in a way that belongs in another era. A breeze blows from somewhere down the block, and Montparnasse hisses as it hits his nipples, his shirt flapping uselessly as it dangles halfway off his arms, his pants falling down his legs as Claquesous makes short work of the zip. 

He should protest, he should shove him off, he should object to the fact that he’s getting fucked in an alley with an orchestra of police sirens still wailing several blocks away, but Claquesous’ hand gets inside his boxers and he couldn’t care less.

A hand yanks sharply at his hips, at he turns around immediately, bracing his hands against the windowsill and pressing backwards until immediately, Claquesous is there again. “Get the fuck on with it,” he begs, his voice high pitched and demanding. If anything, Claquesous gets even slower behind him and he snarls, shoving his hips backwards. “For fuck’s sake Sous, if you don’t get on with it I’ll fucking- “. Two fingers suddenly plunge into his mouth and he chokes. Claquesous presses down on his tongue as his other hand slips in between Montparnasse’s legs, and he whimpers, unable to stop himself. He hasn’t gotten fucked in days, too busy running all over the city trying to find a goddamn rat.

“Had to shut you up somehow,” come Claquesous’ voice, darkly satisfied with himself. “You going to quit your bitching now? Going to shut up long enough to let me fuck you?” He times this as he gently rolls Montparnasse’s balls, turning his hand so the very edge of his thumb is pressing into him. Montparnasse makes another noise that is far too close to a whimper, but he’s too busy to speak, sucking on the two fingers scissoring in and out of his mouth.

Claquesous gets off listening to him, he knows. He’ll nark about Montparnasse never shutting up, threaten to gag him just to get some fucking peace, but he never comes harder than when Montparnasse starts moaning like a whore against him. He’s never brought that little sliver of knowledge up, simply picks and chooses when he opens his mouth depending on how hard he wants to get fucked. He’s normally pretty good at staying silent, which isn’t hard when you’ve had the practice of living in a house with Fauntleroy, but lately Claquesous has been playing every trick in his book to keep Montparnasse noisy during sex, and damn if it isn’t having an effect. 

He pulls his fingers out of his mouth, and Montparnasse’s mouth drops open as Claquesous spread his ass, his fingers sliding into him without difficulty. 

Teeth sink sharply into his earlobe, all pain and no pleasure and he cries out as Claquesous’ voice growls directly into his ear. “Going to explain why you’re opening up for me easily?” His hand moves around to grip firmly around Montparnasse’s dick. He squeezes hard at the base and Montparnasse shudders, desperately horny and with nowhere to go. “Fuck – you” he pants, and yowls again as Claquesous hand leaves his dick and wraps back around his throat. There’s no pressure, just a warning, and Montparnasse grows harder as he fights to keep himself under control.

“Try again,” says Claquesous, no hint of teasing in his tone as he works two fingers in and out. 

Montparnasse thrashes in his arms, and in retaliation Claquesous shoves him more heavily into the wall. “I – uhn! I was – this morning-” Claquesous taps against his prostate, and his vision goes white for a minute, his hips still desperately canting backwards. 

“I was fucking bored, alright?” he pants shakily. “You were – ah! – nowhere to be fucking seen and I couldn’t – fuck, come on- “. He’s a few decibels short of a scream as a third finger pushes into him, and Claquesous breath floats over his ear again, almost purring now as he speaks.

“I wasn’t there so you thought you’d play with yourself, is that right?” he whispers silkily. Montparnasse can’t answer, to busy trying to not to come or collapse or both, but he nods his head frantically. “You didn’t get it into your pretty little head to go and find someone else to entertain you.”

“No, I wouldn’t – fuck” sobs Montparnasse. Claquesous is hitting his prostate with every stroke, and the pressure on his throat is just enough to keep him aware of it without taking away his ability to answer. 

The last time he went to someone else for sex when he was in the middle of a strop at Claquesous was memorable for many reasons. Claquesous was a possessive bastard, and Montparnasse hadn’t made it out of bed for three days after he’d purposefully let Claquesous catch him from that little stunt. When he emerged, he was covered in bruises and bite marks from head to toe, completely strung out in bliss and exhaustion from the number of orgasms he’d been wrung through. Gueulemer had been forced to take Fauntleroy aside and explain that Montparnasse was not some victim of domestic abuse, but rather just incredibly fucking kinky. Fauntleroy, ready to rip Claquesous’ head off his shoulders hadn’t been able to look him in the eye for a week, Montparnasse had been forced to accept even his highest-collared shirts did not hide the marks, and Claquesous had strutted around looking incredibly satisfied with himself. 

He can hear the scrape of Claquesous’ zip being pulled down behind him, and he groans at the feeling of Claquesous lining up behind him. 

‘Come _on_ ” he hisses, impatience making him frantic. Claquesous’ teeth bite into the place where his neck meets the corner of his jaw, and Montparnasse’s eye roll back in their sockets a little. Claquesous does the work, sucking where he knows will make Montparnasse shiver, and this was the worst fucking plan, he thinks as he moans aloud.

Claquesous finally slides into him, and Montparnasse shudders, uncomfortably hot and cold all over for a moment. It’s been more than a few hours since he opened himself this morning, and Claquesous barely gives him a minute to adjust before he starts to thrust in and out.

Claquesous is taller than him by a few inches, but not particularly broader. Still, with an arm at his waist and another at his shoulders, Montparnasse _wails_ as he is fucked forward onto his toes, his hands scrambling for purchase he can’t find as he teeters on the very edge of his balance. 

Claquesous, the bastard, knows full what he’s doing, and he’s laughing as he brings his hand back up to Montparnasse’s throat, collaring him loosely as he fucks into him, hard enough that Montparnasse has to flatten his hands against the wall and concentrate on staying upright as Claquesous slams into him hard enough to knock him back onto his toes. He’s vaguely aware of his own noises, strung out and desperate. 

Whatever it is with the position doesn’t seem to be doing it for Claquesous, even though it’s certainly fucking doing it for him. He shoves at Montparnasse, spinning him around so fast that he can’t keep up, only finding solidity when his hands grab on to Claquesous’ shoulders. He lets his head drop forward to find Claquesous’ mouth blindly, taking advantage of his split-second reprieve to kiss him, licking his way uncoordinatedly into his mouth. 

Claquesous clearly has other things on his mind, and steel-capped boots knock his feet apart. Claquesous steps seamlessly into the space between the twisted mess that was Montparnasse’s pants and his body, and then his hands are gripping under his thighs, hauling him up. His hands are hard enough to leave bruises, finger shaped shadows covering his thighs, his hips, his throat, something Montparnasse loves and will never admit to out loud. 

Claquesous is neither gentle nor patient, the rough brick scraping painfully against his back. Suddenly his dick is back, his hips hot against Montparnasse’s thighs, and Montparnasse has never felt more off balance, pinned in the air between a literal rock and a hard place. 

And then he screams, because Claquesous pushes the head in, his hands biting into his ass, lining them up and fucking _drops him._ The angle is deeper than he’s ever managed before, Claquesous pressed deep into every possible place inside him. He doesn’t let up, pushing Montparnasse a little higher and pulling back again, and drops him again and again, fucking into him as gravity forces Montparnasse down onto Claquesous’ dick. His mouth never closed after his first scream, continually letting out airless ‘uhn’ sounds as Claquesous pushes in. 

Claquesous is usually silent when he’s not laughing, not egging Montparnasse on in a smooth voice that makes him want to hit him and get wrecked by him at the same time. At the moment, he’s growling something into Montparnasse’s neck, feverishly pressing words and kisses into his neck that he can’t quite manage to comprehend. Claquesous’ mouth is hot and slick, and his fingernails are scraping trails up his sides that make him feel like he’s being branded. His hips are jerking uncontrollably but there’s nowhere to go, every move he makes just pushes Claquesous further in, and he feels his eyes roll back in his head as Claquesous’ hands shift position and he drops an inch down the wall. He moans in delight as Claquesous moves faster, and his hands and hips tighten against him, forcing him still in a position that has Claquesous swearing uncreatively, fucking against him desperately as sparks build behind his eyes and warmth floods his lower body.

He comes and it _rips_ through him, a violent wave of pleasure that blocks the world out further, his entire life narrowing to the sparks behind his eyelids and Claquesous’ ear where it touches his lips and his dick where it’s fucking him, hot and glorious and exactly what he wants. 

He’s actually sobbing, and he’ll cut off Claquesous’ fingers for the indignity one day in the future or he might just take his hand and force him to do it again, he hasn’t decided.

He’s beginning to get over-sensitive, starting to writhe against Claquesous as the pleasure takes on a rough edge that he _loves_ , when Claquesous finally swears, “Fuck!” and he can feel him release into him. His body jerks weakly against Claquesous’ hips, and he’s rewarded by hearing him groan into him, tilting his head to kiss the underside of his jaw. He cups Claquesous’ jaw again with his hands, and pulls his face down to kiss him properly, pouring everything left of his energy into his partner as Claquesous spends the last of his. 

He comes to stop still buried in Montparnasse, still pinning him against the wall as his hands rub slowly up and down the tops of his arms, breathing harshly. Montparnasse shifts against him, wincing slightly as his thighs burn. Claquesous gets the memo, and slowly releases him, easing Montparnasse’s legs down from his hips, and shifting to pull out, Montparnasse choking back a moan as he did so. Claquesous is beginning to get his breath back, but Montparnasse is still trying to recover his, the barest hint of tears beginning to dry against the lower curve of his eyeliner. 

Claquesous carefully steps away, ducking down to pull Montparnasse’s pants back up, but then he comes back in to kiss him again. His hands wind back into his hair and he’s kissing him gently, and Montparnasse abandons the waistband of his trousers to kiss him back, pulling back every few moments to breathe.

He’ll get his sanity back relatively quickly. While he won’t be slut-shamed by anyone, including himself, for enjoying getting screwed to an inch of his life, aftercare would be a bit much. Claquesous understands the way it works. If he didn’t, Montparnasse would have castrated him by now.

They re-dress in silence until Claquesous raises a sardonic eyebrow as he does his own fly up. “Shirt’s a bit wrinkled.” 

Montparnasse smiles at him sweetly and then brings his knee into his balls, stroking Claquesous hair back as he doubles over swearing. “I should make you press it by hand,” he sneers. “You ever do that to one of my shirts again and I will set fire to your fucking wardrobe.”

He pulls Claquesous up by his hair, roughly making him switch places with him so Claquesous is the one shoved up against the wall. He forces his mouth open in a kiss, licking his way into the space behind Claquesous’ teeth and Claquesous tilts his head and gives as good as he gets. All of a sudden Claquesous freezes, and Montparnasse smiles as he draws back. He taps the gun he’s just fished out of the belt of Claquesous’ trousers against his hip, Claquesous holding him by the belt against him but otherwise not daring to move. Montparnasse kisses his cheek softly before tucking the handgun into his own belt.

“I could use a drink” he declares, sweeping a hand over himself to check all items of clothing are present and correct. The others are likely back at the house by now, except for Mer maybe, but they’ve all got headphones and they can shove it up their collective asses.

Claquesous is still in the position he left them in, leaning up against the wall and staring at him with hooded eyes. Montparnasse meets his gaze. “There’s a decent bottle of vodka in the freezer if you’re not heading back to your place.”

Claquesous’ grin is _filthy._

…

Babet took one look at the two of them when they finally made it back to the house, Montparnasse’s shirt hanging loosely off his body, buttons torn off and left long behind. There’s a string of bruises up his chest and his neck and his hair is mussed in a way it’s never been seen before in public.

Babet laughs, because he’s a dick like that.

Montparnasse hurls a lighter at his face, not bothering to look as he hears Babet swear when it hits him, hauling Claquesous up the stairs by his shirt and starting to shove him in the direction of the bedroom.

He’ll deal with Babet’s complaints in the morning.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm always around on [Tumblr](https://radpeacharbiter.tumblr.com).


End file.
